Flesh-Stick takes a seat at his assigned table. He’s dressed for the occasion in an orange bowtie, a multitude of smaller orange bows at the ends of his mohawks, and a fake nose and glasses over his gasmask. He fidgets a bit as he waits for the rest of his tablemates to arrive, going over dining etiquette with himself one more time. After all, this isn’t one of those parties he can ruin by dropping his pants or throwing food or hiding a cockroach in somebody’s salad. This is a party where everyone should feel comfortable and welcome. It’s a place for meeting new friends.
"LET’S SEE, YOU PASS THE POTATOES ON THE LEFT AND THE GRAVY ON THE RIGHT, YOU USE THE FORKS FROM THE INSIDE OUT AND YOU DON’T BANG 'EM ON YOUR WATER GLASS TO MAKE MUSIC, YOU EXTEND YOUR PINKIE, NOT YOUR MIDDLE FINGER WHEN YOU PICK UP YOUR CUP, AND YOU DON’T DISCUSS RELIGION, POLITICS, OR THE GREAT PUMPKIN. ALSO, IF ANYONE DRINKS TEA, YOU EXCUSE YOURSELF AND GO CRY ABOUT IT IN THE BATHROOM. YOU DON’T SCREAM AND HIDE UNDER THE TABLE OR GRAB YOUR STEAK KNIFE AND STAND ON A CHAIR AND TELL EVERYONE TO GET THE HELL AWAY FROM YOU. OKAY. I GOT THIS."
Flesh-Stick settles down to wait. He ducks a flying turducken from a food fight at a nearby table and takes a sip from his water glass. He counts the lightbulbs in the nearest chandelier. He hopes someone remembered to spike the punch. He is eager to meet his tablemates.
You hear the sound of a gong, seemingly emanating from everywhere (you suspect a clever cook with a very large soup pot). A space on the floor has been cleared, and a nervous looking string quartet begins to play.
(The dance floor is now open in a separate thread to anyone who wishes to dance)
edited by pillbox on 11/2/2016
Flesh-Stick looks up from sculpting a Noman out of his mashed potatoes.
“I PROBABLY SHOULDN’T, CAUSE ONCE I START DANCING, IT’S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE I TAKE OFF MY PANTS AND I GOTTA REMEMBER TO BEHAVE AT THIS PARTY. BESIDES, I WANNA MEET MY TABLEMATES. I HOPE THEY DIDN’T GET TIED UP IN RUSH HOUR CARRIAGE TRAFFIC.”
Flesh-Stick looks up from the card game he’s playing with the salt shaker, the gravy boat and the pickle fork. He checks his pocket watch and sees how late the hour has grown. He surveys the table with its mostly melted down candles and cold, congealed food. He sniffles quietly to himself and lays his head down on the table, even though he knows that’s probably something that was listed as a no-no in that big etiquette book he kept under his pillow while he slept last night.
He lets out the tiniest of sighs. “Art imitates life, I guess…”
A woman comes off of the dance floor and walks to your table.
"Your melancholy is depressing me. Go pull up a chair at table eleven - we seem to be collecting strays."
edited by pillbox on 11/3/2016
Flesh-Stick lifts his head groggily, looks around and sees he’s still at an empty table. He plops his head back onto the tablecloth and motions for a passing waiter to bring him a bloody mary.
The Mary is not, in fact, Bloody. The Mirthless Colonist strolls past Table Nine on his way back to his table, and briefly meets Flesh-Stick’s gaze.
"What’s gotten you in a twist?"
Flesh-Stick looks up briefly at the Mirthless Colonist, looks around at the rest of his completely empty table, and then lays his head back down on the tablecloth, as if deciding that if the Colonist can’t figure out why he’s bored/lonely at an empty table in the middle of a party, or sad that five people stood him up at once, that there’s probably no point in explaining.
The Mirthless Colonist walks around the table, hoists Flesh-Stick up by the armpits, and carries him to the bar.
"You might as well drown your sorrows closer to the alcohol reserve. If you’re still around later, we’ll have a drink-off."
edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 11/3/2016
“Thanks Mr. Tomb Colonist. Are there any drinks with sparklers in them?”
“Okay, how about something with chocolate in it?”
Flesh-Stick returns from the bar and is soon embroiled in a spirited political discussion with the pepper shaker. At first it’s merely an annoyance due to volume, but eventually, when someone’s mother’s good name gets dragged into it, there is some brandishing of cutlery. Thankfully, one of the servants cuts this short by removing the knives from the table and bringing more napkins. Flesh-Stick is soon engaged in making a little fort, the previous argument forgotten.
“Mind if drop in to say hi?” Dirae Erinyes tone is warm but exasperated. Their clock face gives a dejected tick. “About half my table just got arrested.”
Flesh-Stick emerges out from under the napkin fort brandishing a turkey leg. The now-empty gravy boat is upside down on his head.
“HALT! WHO GOES THERE??” He points the turkey leg at Dirae Erinyes. “STOP IN THE NAME OF THE QUEEN’S BUNIONS! THERE’LL BE NO PILLAGING DONE HERE AS LONG AS I’M IN CHARGE OF THIS STRONGHOLD! UNLESS…”
He drops his voice and leans toward Dirae Erinyes with a giggle. “unless you wanna pillage my underpants!”
He bursts into braying laughter. “THE JOKE’S ON YOU CAUSE I DON’T WEAR UNDERPANTS!”
He laughs again, until a murmur from a nearby table catches his attention. He looks over at the Mornington Crescent players.
“HMMPH! I’M SO SICK OF WATCHING THEM PUSSY-FOOT AROUND. NOT ONE OF THEM KNOWS HOW TO PLAY THAT GAME LIKE A REAL MAN! I SHOULD-”
He stops as a servant goes by pushing the dessert cart. “AH HA!” he shouts as if being hit with an idea. “HALT! HALT IN THE NAME OF THE LAW! I HEREBY COMMANDEER THIS VEHICLE IN THE NAME OF HER ROYAL MAJESTY, BUTT STALLION!!!”
Flesh-Stick raises his turkey leg and charges after the servant, who shrieks and runs for her life.
“And this why I always love stopping by for a chat.” Dirae Erinyes mood seems quite lightened.
Flesh-Stick returns to his table, staggering under the weight of all that liquor he’s carrying around with him. Despite a rocky start, he ended up having a wonderful time at this party, and he is sad to say goodbye. But alas, it is time to return to his lodgings and engage in the lengthy task of Sleeping It Off.
“THANKS FOR THE AWESOME EVENING, EVERYBODY!” he tells all his new friends. “SORRY TO HEAR ABOUT THAT BUSINESS WITH YOUR SISTER AND THAT RUBBERY HOUND, I HOPE SHE GETS OUT OF PRISON SOON,” he says to the first chair.
He turns to the second chair. “I REALLY LIKED HEARING ABOUT YOUR PUDDING SKIN COLLECTION, I HOPE I CAN COME OVER AND SEE IT SOMETIME!”
The third chair is next. “I KNOW WE GOT INTO A BIT OF AN ARGUMENT ABOUT THE CHIMNEY SWEEPS UNION, BUT I’M GLAD WE WERE ABLE TO PATCH THINGS UP. YOU SEEM LIKE A NICE LADY.”
He turns to the fouth chair, and pauses awkwardly. Finally, he says “WELL, I LIKE YOUR HAT, ANYWAY.”
He turns shyly to the final chair. “I…UH…HAD A GOOD TIME TONIGHT. WOULD YOU…MAYBE…I DUNNO…WANNA GO OUT FOR ICE CREAM SOMETIME?”
He shrieks in embarrassment and flees the table, leaving a trail of giggles in his wake. Upon inspection, he appears to left his number behind. Upon even closer inspection, it’s actually the receipt for a garden hoe and two tacos.